


Four Alternatives to The Prince

by orphan_account



Category: Twisted Princess (Disney Fanart)
Genre: Captivity, Colonialism, Eye Gouging, Gen, Racism, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yuletide 2013 for Untherius - based on Jeftoon01 @ DeviantArt.</p>
<p>Short stories on selected princesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Alternatives to The Prince

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Untherius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Untherius/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Twisted Princess Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/32811) by Jeftoon01. 



### Pocahontas

She turned away, unwilling to watch the boats go out to the enormous ship in the deeper harbor beyond. The spinning arrow had shown her to John Smith. The unceasing motion also told her that she would not stop there. The ground below her feet felt right, not the water. Air fanned her hair backwards, cooling her neck where it hit the sweat there. Forest smells surrounded her once more. The stink of the Englishmen floated away with their boats. When she was out of sight, and she could not hear the splash of the paddles in the still waters of the inlet, she stooped down and took a handful of dirt. It was sandy, and full of pine needles and bits of bark; she rubbed it between her palms to clean them.

"Oh, Grandmother Willow," she thought, running now. "Ah, _Oke_. What trials I have had."

Her father saw this from the distance, but an old woman held her arm in front of Powhatan.

"We always knew," she said to him. "She is not to marry, my lord. And she chooses to remain here. Her spirit is not that of a wife."

He nodded. Her ability to speak with the men from the ships was striking, but only the latest of the many small magical abilities she seemed to take for granted. It was unusual for a woman of his people to be called by the gods. Her mother had been from the westernmost tribes under his dominion, and the elders assured him it was seen there. First, she would travel to the _pawcorance_ at Uttamussack, where the greater priests of the confederation, as well as the tombs of the previous leaders, remained.

The small group of men on the rise with him started to dissemble, but Powhatan remained, watching his daughter. The elder watched with him, one hand on a sturdy staff. She looked along the path Pocahontas seemed to be finding - the one she had known that one child of the tribe always would - the path to the northern river, and the great stone and tombs on its farther shore.

* * *

Though she felt the pull even more strongly, Pocahontas was not without forethought. Her plan was clearer now without the men from far shores confusing her. Holding her feet still on the familiar paths, while they ached to travel the one she knew awaited her, was a small struggle. Previously, it would have been impossible. She knew she would have travelled through the night, and given in to impulse to return when the sun rose again, as recently as a month ago. Now there was a stillness inside.

Her heart beat, and she listened for a moment to its regularity. Tonight she would not leave. She would tell her father, and prepare for the journey ahead. It was right to prepare.

It was with their blessing she wrapped some provisions and packed them in a lightweight basket. The night before she left, her skin painted with dry white pigment by the elder and a priest, she slept beneath Grandmother Willow once more. The fire from the ceremony still burnt within her sight as she traced the curve of the roots she had napped among before.

"It will not be forever," she heard. "But when you return it will not be the same."

"I will not be the same, Grandmother." Pocahontas closed her eyes, recalling the visions she had seen in the flames. That night her dreams awoke her while the moon was still hanging in the sky. She slung the basket across her back. Meeko walked beside her as she left the willow, and her home.

* * *

 

The tall, bare posts that formed the palisade wall loomed above her. Her left hand flexed under the piece of metal armor she had taken off an Englishman's body. Some of the men had deferred to him, but he was slow, and died quickly. He was not the type of man her people would have considered fit for leadership.

Men did not follow her, nor did she want them to. In the north, and then the west, she had learned her purpose. The arrow spun, and was alone. Meeko and Flit had stayed with her, her eyes in places even she could not slide her thin frame. She spoke with others, as well; the bears, though at first the Englishmen had thought they were small, were powerful warriors when she needed them. Too, the wolves and eagles and wild cats of her land came to her aid. Even the lowest beetle gave her help, in stripping the bones of the men she killed. In this way, they were made more fearsome.

Their palisade wall did not keep out their fears. Nor would they keep out her. They knew her as Pocahontas, a nickname, speaking of her wildness. She kept her new name secret from the Englishmen, but not her rage. Never that.

### Maid Marian

The wedding changed nothing about him. He still disappeared, sometimes for shorter times and sometimes for longer periods. As she was never the sort of person who worried for very long, despite her love for him and how gladdened she was by his company, she accepted his absences. Robin would return, and in the meanwhile she learned to be in the forest.

The first night, as she curled up with him on stolen and repaired cushions, listening to the fire at the back of the cave crackle, she tried to ignore the fears that crept in with the darkness. Her pale gown was already ruined, dirt ground into the hem. When the fire died out in the night, no housemaid would be there to refresh it before she noticed the cold. Marian arched her back to feel Robin's presence beside her. Long fur meshed with hers as he breathed slowly in his sleep. She wondered about food, and safety, and warmth, and clothing, and being a woman - oh, God in heaven, of children - in the wilds. She began to stir, and in his sleep, Robin's tail curled around her hip. It was the last time she worried without cause in Sherwood.

If Robin had his way, she would do nothing but sit by a stream, or in his favorite, driest cave, tangled in stolen tapestries and silks and waiting for him. Marian insisted on being part of something. There were few women willing to be out in the woods; the women of the village viewed her skeptically.

Marian found herself with Little John while Robin was off, suddenly afraid that spending too much time with Skippy or the other young rabbits would push her into a role little different than what she expected at the castle. He worked with her on disguises; she embroidered, and he taught her theatrical makeup. While Robin was away - she no longer worried about what he was, and scarce nights went by that he did not return - they made clever pockets in cloaks, repaired pouches and tents and hammocks, and she was glad to have a real use for some of the useless skills she learned. Dancing made her agile on the long, bouncing tree branches. There was no tennis in the forest, although the exercise had taught her to move lightly and strike hard. She practiced using a bow, at first as poorly as the young Skippy. No one would ever be as good as Robin, of course, but she became proficient, and that was all that was demanded. Her knowledge of the nobility, its habits and signs, etiquette and heraldry, allowed the crew of Sherwood to strategize, instead of simply striking or running at the last moment. While King Richard reigned - five blissful years, Marian recalled - they were given liberty, an official blind eye turned towards their smaller pilferages.

When King Richard died, and John returned, she recalled, aiming at a caravan guard, ah, that is when she could have said everything changed. Robin became wanted again. She left the pup with the midwife and took to the trees. Little John and some of the other stronger men helped her re-hide the cave she and Robin considered their primary home, rolling boulders and propping up fallen trees to create a hidden corridor of sorts. Robin forgot about things such as this, thrilling in the risks again. While Richard reigned, they had indeed kept their thefts small, preying only on the few corrupt local officials. His absence made the fox bold again, and his hatred for John inflamed his plans.

Now, alone this week, Marian watched from the trees, arrow drawn, as several carriages with the arms of Angoulême processed through the forest. A young girl, a noble girl, she knew, but could not recall who, was escorted with a small group of maids towards the castle. Marian watched, relaxing the pull on the bow slightly. Taillefer's house had a daughter, she remembered. Isabella. The girl looked down at her lap, a bit of blonde hair escaping her headdress. She seemed lost.

Marian lowered the arrow and turned her cloak inside-out. The finer silk side showed now, and she danced down from the oak, stashing her weapons in a crack away from the roadside.

"My lady! Ah, what a fine day to be in the forest. What brings you to England?"

### Aurora

Her numb left hand trailed across the stone floor, a nail catching in a seam between stones. Aurora felt it tear away. There was no pain, simply coolness as blood dripped down her finger, seeping through the bandages. She cautiously reached her right hand forward and met the leg of a wooden table. Both hands pulled her body up, and Aurora leaned on the table, breathing hard with the exertion.

Never walk away from a dragon, and never turn your back on a sorceress. She and Prince Philip had believed it was all over when his sword struck at her heart. If it had just been an illusion, why would the thorns have retreated from the castle? But it had been. Even the briars had been an illusion. She knew now, because Maleficent told her.

Aurora had been brushing her hair, humming softly, when Maleficent and her shadow slid into the dressing room. "Have I found you early enough, Princess Aurora?" she asked. Aurora turned just in time to see a washerwoman's face and stooped posture slip off the sorceress's form. Her red lips sealed themselves with a wave of the other's hand, and all limbs froze, although this was from sorcery or sheer fear, she was still unsure.

"Have you spent the night with your prince yet?" Maleficent's voice dripped with poison. "You can move your head," she continued, and her fingertips grazed her jaw. Now she remembered shuddering but had been unable to back away. It was almost without her own permission that her head shook 'no.' The sorceress smiled, and then all was darkness.

When she awoke, she found all was darkness and now pain. Her left arm throbbed; her burning eyes would not open. She shifted on the hard surface she lay on, but was unable to move far.

"Hello?" She felt hope flood her body as she found she could speak, though her throat cracked and she tasted blood on her dry lips. "Hello?" Aurora called again, and then coughed. She heard a shifting in the near distance, as if a guard leaning on a pike had scraped the floor, and then bootsteps.

Maleficent finished engraving the spell glyphs on the lantern. The tick-tick of the fairies' wings on the mica panes ceased. Without their wands, their light would soon fade; not that Aurora would be able to see by their glow, or by any glow, or any light.  It had taken some time to find the right spells, some from far lands, and more time find the right combination to counteract the three small fairies.  While they could not be destroyed, they could be restrained.  Small magical locks were stronger than large ones.  The lantern was, ah, an affectation.  It was a negative magical cage, made of specific metals and stones, engraved with the right words and symbols, and embued with other charms as took nearly two years to complete.   A red smear lined each pane and a drop was affixed to each corner.  The 'aunts' were imprisoned by Aurora's blood, the final component, and the one that would sting them the most bitterly.   Knowing they had failed to protect her would, Maleficent knew, burn them until their hearts were consumed.  

He waited until she looked up at him; he tried not to look at the jars on her worktable. In the smaller, eyes started back. The larger one disturbed him less; though he knew its contents, it was easier to pretend it was simply from a butcher. "Mistress," the guard said. "She awakes."

She smiled, setting the lantern down. "Well, then. I suppose it's time to see if she's ready to go back to her charming woodland creatures." Maleficent saw the guard avert his eyes from the bobbing ones. "I've left her voice alone. That's more than some would do, but I've no use for it."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Don't be simple. I'm sick of simple servants. Now, please, we shall have a little talk with the Princess, born of no respect. She can carry our message to the King."

He did not ask how she would go anywhere blinded as she now was.  He had learned not to question his mistress.  

### Rapunzel

"This is why I've kept you here," Gothel said. She pushed the bulletins across Rapunzel's desk. "I've gotten these from the inns and pubs, like the one you found."

Rapunzel put down her brush and pulled the brittle papers closer. She did not look up. Gothel glanced at the painting, and frowned.

"You haven't forged all of these, at least," the girl said. Her voice remained coarse, harsh from disuse. Some hair lifted and fanned out to cover the art she had been working on. Gothel held her tongue; she had forged none. "Some of these are very old. How am I to believe they are still current?"

"Here," Gothel said. "This one was practically still fresh from the printing press."

To the nobility, gentry, and the curious  
 _for inspecting most extraordinary examples_  
of humanity and God's creations  
 **PRIMITIVE PRINCESSES**  
  
---  
just arrived from across the Atlantic  
and to be seen at _Mr. Coleman's Theater_  
throughout January  
starting at 8 o'clock in the evening  
**Shanawdithit,** an Esquimaux maid of canada  
 **Pocahontas,** an Indian maid of the virginia colonies  
 **Djits Buddanaca,** ditto, of the connecticut valley  
 **Sac Nicte,** ditto, of the spanish colonies  
_cost 2s-- children half_  
  
She looked at the page, the woodcut sketches of the women, unlikely to look anything like them, and their names. She looked at the words.

"Inspect," she whispered. "'To be seen.'" Her hair began to curl, twisting around itself and everything nearby. It gripped Gothel's wrist and tugged her close. "We should go."

"And do what?" Her guardian tugged her arm free, more as a reflex than with any effect. "Free them? And then what will they do?"

"Be safe from the eyes of men," she said. "Even if they die, it is freedom from their gaze." Finally, Rapunzel looked up, and her hair let go of Gothel. "They deserve anything else, _Mother_. You taught me that."

Gothel looked at the paintings again, and took a deep breath. "We can try." But she thought about the girl with no eyes, and how they had tried to talk to her, and she could never understand.

**Author's Note:**

> I am distressed writing for the Disney treatment of historical events which writing for Pocahontas requires. I did not foresee this when signing up, but was unwilling to default in order to engage with the ethical dilemma myself. I strongly suggest reading 'Deciphering Pocahontas' as a generally approachable treatment of why commodification of historical women - especially non-white women - is problematic. 
> 
> [Deciphering Pocahontas: Unpacking the Commodification of a Native American Woman](http://www.academia.edu/309324/Deciphering_Pocahontas_Unpackaging_the_Commodification_of_a_Native_American_Woman)  
> [Primary Sources for Jamestown](http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/etcbin/jamestown-browsemod?id=J1008)  
> [Information from the region by the Powhatan tribe](http://www.powhatan.org/pocc.html)  
> [Information from the Mattaponi Reservation](http://www.mattaponirez.org/Mattaponi_Rez/Traditional_Religion.html)  
> [Fidelia Fielding](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fidelia_Fielding)Information on Fidelia Fielding, one of the last native speakers of another Eastern Woodlands language  
> [Information on non-white peoples being exhibited in the 19th century](http://www.nyam.org/library/rare-book-room/exhibits/telling-of-wonders/ter7.html)  
> Art Sources:  
> http://jeftoon01.deviantart.com/art/Twisted-Princess-Maid-Marian-278936967  
> http://jeftoon01.deviantart.com/art/Twisted-Princess-Aurora-117711730  
> http://jeftoon01.deviantart.com/art/Twisted-Princess-Rapunzel-190863982  
> http://jeftoon01.deviantart.com/art/Twisted-Princess-Pocahontas-118583763


End file.
